The Fall of France
by hetaliasanguis
Summary: Historical Dark!Hetalia fic about the Battle of France, also known as the Fall of France, in World War II. Nazi!Prussia and Nazi!Germany (though referred to as East and West Germany here). One-shot. T for brief language and war themes.


**The Invasion of France**

_The Nazis are coming. Make preparations for defense._

The message had been delivered to France by a terrified young boy, stammering out the few simple words so quickly that he stumbled over them and had to start over again twice.

France, listening and nodding his blond head in acknowledgment over a glass of red wine, had taken the news with mixed emotions: he understood the boy's fear, the threat of war was inevitably frightening, but also felt that the little messenger did not fully comprehend the circumstances. France knew well to be afraid of Germany, and had been for years—but then there was his brother, and surely, Prussia, would remain on his side.

No, those were the wrong names, he reminded himself, with a touch of irritation that he kept forgetting; they were East and West Germany now.

True, he had not spoken to his friend in years, despite occasional efforts on France's part to rekindle their friendship, but still; a bond such as the one he and Prussia and Spain had shared was not something simply discarded, not one that dissolved over time. And Prussia had given reasonable-sounding excuses, too, whenever he turned down an invitation; he was too busy, he needed to help his brother, he had to focus on caring for his country first.

France could understand that; in fact he admired it. Prussia had always been hardworking and persistent, ever since he was the Teutonic Knights. Military strength was important to him; France once had worried about such things, but now far preferred the culture and beauty of his country to such base pursuits. Nonetheless, he could appreciate the differing opinion of the Germanic nations, though it saddened him a little that it so often interfered with any chance he had to associate with his friend.

He had heard the stories about Nazi Germany, of course; slander, he was sure, simply spiteful rumors. Poorly-fabricated ones, too. As if anyone really expected him to believe such horrendous things about another nation. This had angered him more than the notion that they might be true; this thought had never crossed his mind. Yes, war was ugly, but it should at least be fought with honor; such underhanded tactics as vicious slander were really hitting below the belt. He knew with complete confidence that Prussia would never do such a thing, and his brother—as intimidating as he could be—must therefore be incapable of such atrocities as well.

And so he had made the conscious decision to not fear as much as he could have; to take some precautions, but with the confidence that they were unnecessary. Paris had not been defended; the troops were needed elsewhere and the Germans would assuredly not make it so far.

* * *

**Fall Gelb**

The next message unnerved him, coming far sooner than he had anticipated. The Germans had cut off the Allies in Belgium, preventing the help he had expected. A harried England had called him to say that Belgium and Netherlands had both surrendered to the Nazis, and that British and French forces were now being driven back relentlessly.

France was silent for a moment, processing this new information. "No," he said finally, trying to reassure himself with little success. "No, it can't be. We had so many men there. Netherlands surrendered?" The thought of the grim-faced, spiky-haired nation ever giving in to anyone was almost too foreign to picture.

"Him and his sister both," the English-accented voice on the other line snapped. France was well aware that England got even more short-tempered under stress, and it was clear that he was under a tremendous amount of pressure now. "The men can't get through, they're just being forced back."

"But—but that's far too soon."

He heard an exasperated sigh on the other end and scowled. England was the one being unreasonable here, not him; defeats simply did not happen that quickly. "Apparently not," England said brusquely. "They've been pushed back as far as the sea."

"So quickly?"

"Yes, you bloody idiot, so quickly. They're in danger now. We can't leave them there or they'll all be massacred."

France could not find the words to answer. He rarely heard England like this. Yes, the other nation generally did sound irritated, but this was different; he was exhausted, worried, frustrated—even scared?

If he was really telling the truth, then it was true that something had to be done, and quickly.

He began, "We've got to send more—"

"No." England cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We can't afford it. And we're not leaving them there to die; they're not going to be able to regain that ground."

"But—"

"They're not! They lost it too fast."

England was not supposed to admit failure. He was one of the most stubborn nations France knew. That is, apart from Gilbert . . . He quickly pushed this thought from his mind.

"We can—"

"No. We can't. So we're evacuating the British Expeditionary Force and a few French divisions as well. It's for their own good; they're not going to win there and we're not just abandoning them to continue to lose an already losing fight."

France panicked a little at this. "No, England, wait, you can't evacuate the BEF. And who are you to say that the French divisions should—"

"I'll talk to you later, France."

"Don't—"

"I'm sorry. I can't let so many British soldiers die."

"No! England! If you do that and the Germans realize the weakness they'll just—"

"France." England was trying to be comforting, France realized. This only alarmed him more. England never tried to be comforting; if he was now, then something was seriously wrong. "We'll defend you. You're one of the Allies . You'll be fine. But we're getting the men out of there now."

"_Angleterre_—"

A click on the other end and then the line went dead. France simply stood there, staring at the phone as if it, personally, had abandoned him. He slowly laid the phone back in its cradle and sat down again, his heart pounding.

He could not make himself stop dwelling on the note of fear in England's voice. England was not one to show fear; usually he was good at hiding any kind of emotion whatsoever under a shell of bitter grumpiness. If he was so afraid that it was betraying him in his voice, evident even over the phone, then France had very good reason to be afraid as well.

* * *

**Fall Rot**

The few days' respite after the withdrawal of the English and French forces had made France briefly hopeful that perhaps the war—the _blitzkrieg_, as he had heard the Germans called it—was letting up.

This weak hope was extinguished when he received the news only a few days later that the Germans had attacked again, this time by air.

France could feel his people suffering, and the feeling terrified him. This was not supposed to happen; everything was coming so quickly, the relentless attacks, and he was beginning to realize that the French military was simply not able to adapt to this kind of speed. They had lost again and again.

War was not supposed to happen this quickly.

The next message was brief and to the point and sent chills through him.

_They have followed up with an attack over land. They are advancing at a dangerous rate._

Too soon. Too soon.

France sank helplessly into a chair. He had no idea how much time they had before the Nazis reached Paris itself; a few months? Could reinforcements be sent to Paris in time to head them off? He did not know how far the French forces had already been forced to retreat.

None of this was anything like what he had faced before. Usually there was, at the very least, time to adapt, to change strategy to meet the opponent. Now he found himself cut off at every turn and running rapidly out of time. That, more than anything else, was making him lose the tentative hold over his fear.

He looked down at his hands and, almost to his own surprise, found them shaking.

Too soon.

Too soon.

Too soon.

No, he told himself forcefully, almost angrily, cutting himself off in the middle of the morbid mantra. He was being stupid. It would be all right. It was ridiculous to be so frightened. Prussia—though he supposed he should now call him East Germany—was his friend.

He wandered into the next room, picking up a picture in a frame from a dresser: himself, Spain, and Prussia, arms around each other, laughing, Gilbird perched in Prussia's hair and Pierre in France's.

The picture made him smile despite his fear. Prussia's _face_, laughing with abandon. He could not even remember now what they had all been laughing at, but it was evident from their faces that it must have been pretty hilarious. They were practically hanging on each other's shoulders, pushed together so that they would all be in the frame of the picture.

Germany had been the one to take that photo, he realized with a jolt; Prussia had thrust the camera at his brother and ordered him to photograph them, saying jokingly that he wanted to remember that he'd had friends once, if these assholes ever decided they didn't like him anymore.

Germany hadn't laughed—France couldn't remember if he had ever seen Germany laugh—but he had smiled a little as he complied with his brother's request, taking the picture and handing the camera back to his older brother.

France tried to push this memory out of his mind since he was finding it physically painful, but he found that he could not.

Prussia had given copies of the photo to him and Spain soon afterwards, the date it was taken written on the back in his neat handwriting.

That was only a brief time before he had asked them to start calling him East instead of Prussia.

They had not had much time to adjust to this new name before their friend had begun to drift away from them, giving the excuses of busyness and the need to help his brother. He had been tight-lipped when they tried to pump him for information about what he was so busy with, but France supposed now that this secrecy had been necessary.

Silently, France wondered if Prussia—East, he corrected himself—still had the same picture somewhere. He hoped he did.

* * *

**The Fall of Paris**

The sound of thousands of boots marching in perfect unison.

Gunfire.

Screaming.

France rose to his feet slowly, cold dread growing in his chest. So fast?

The city was undefended, no one ever dreaming that the Nazis would make it so far so fast. He could hear the screams outside, the sounds of quick and efficient killing.

How many weeks had it been? he thought numbly. Not even weeks—days. Nine days since the Germans had first attacked by air.

A sudden pounding on his door made him spin around, heart racing. No. Not this soon. He could see the front door down a flight of steps and turned to shut himself in another room, so that he would not be immediately visible to someone coming through the front door. It would hardly keep the Germans away, but at the very least it would buy him more time.

The pounding abruptly stopped, and then there was a loud crashing noise and the sound of shattering wood.

The sound of two pairs of boots coming up the stairs and harsh voices speaking in German floated up the stairs, muffled by the door between them and France. The two sets of footsteps stopped; more rapid German, and then they split up, opening doors and searching the rooms.

France sank to the ground hopelessly, his long blue jacket pooling on the floor around him. There was no means of escape and the city was defenseless. No one had ever dreamed that the Nazis would push so far so fast.

Nine days since this most recent campaign had started. Barely a month since they had first invaded.

He heard the doorknob turning; despite the discord from outside, the noise still seemed magnified a hundred times. France closed his eyes, bracing himself. In his haste, he had not locked the door behind him.

The door was pushed open, so violently that it slammed against the opposite wall, and then East Germany stood framed in the doorway.

Slowly, France raised his head to meet his former friend's eyes, and a jolt went through him at the sight that met his eyes.

East was almost unrecognizable. His red eyes, once bright with humor and laughter, now burned with something else, a new passion and hatred; the blush of color was drained from his cheeks, leaving them a pale, almost ghostly white. Dark circles under his eyes bespoke of many days of fierce, unrelenting work. He looked stronger than France had seen him in years, and menacing.

He wore a black SS uniform like his brother, the Nazi armband on his bicep like a splash of blood, and he held a gun, perfectly steady as he lifted it in black-gloved hands and aimed directly at the Frenchman.

France could not find the words to speak to him. He simply stared up at the nation who had once been one of his best friends, silent pleading in his face.

The other finally spoke. His voice did not sound as it once had either; the laughter gone, the tone flat and dead. "Stand up."

France rose unsteadily to his feet; he was shaking all over and his legs were barely able to support himself.

"East," he said, finally finding his voice. "East, please . . ."

Keeping the gun trained on him, the white-haired nation turned his head slightly while still watching France, and called back out of the room.

"West! Come here! I've found him!"

The shock of the betrayal almost made France collapse to the ground again. He took a few stumbling steps backward, and then West Germany appeared in the doorway, dressed like his brother, also holding a gun. A slight smile appeared on his face when he saw France, still trying to back away, looking from one to the other in growing desperation.

Suddenly France's back hit the wall and he realized that he could retreat no further. The two black-uniformed nations advanced on him slowly, their guns pointed towards him. They both stopped a few feet away from him, almost at the same instant.

It was West Germany who spoke first: the only time in France's memory Prussia had allowed his brother the spotlight when he could have taken it for himself. His deep voice was entirely emotionless.

"We hereby occupy this land in the name of the Axis Powers. Surrender now and save your people further death and your land further destruction."

France looked from one to the other with growing desperation; there was no pity in their expressions, only cold purpose.

"Prussia," he said weakly, appealingly. "East. Gilbert."

The white-haired nation did not respond. His jaw was set and he held the gun perfectly steady in his hands. France did not want to try to meet Germany's blue eyes; he knew perfectly well there would be no empathy there.

"Surrender," West Germany repeated evenly. "Your refusal will only harm your people further. You cannot win. Belgium and the Netherlands have already fallen; the German army has already proven itself unstoppable."

France closed his eyes tightly as if he could somehow shut out the horror, but the sound of the gunfire and the screams outside only came through sharper. He shuddered.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't hurt them anymore."

The two Nazis waited, guns still lifted. Another scream came from outside and France flinched. He could feel tears coming to his eyes and dropped his head, letting his hair obscure his face so that they would not see.

"I surrender. Tell me what you want. Only stop this—this—" He waved a hand almost frantically at the window. The screams had died down. He raised his eyes, no longer caring if they saw his tears; they wore matching expressions of grim satisfaction.

"Good," said West Germany calmly. "Our terms of armistice are as follows. The German army will occupy northern France, as well as your Atlantic coastline as far as Spain."

France flinched at the sound of his friend's name. _Don't hurt Antonio too, Gilbert._

East's expression had not changed at the mention of Spain. He looked like a zombie, France thought. He spoke again at last, the first time he had not allowed West to speak for him.

"We will establish a new government for your country in the town of Vichy," he said in flat tones. "In unoccupied southern France. This government will, of course, still be required to cooperate with Germany."

"_Oui_," murmured France. "Of course."

If he closed his eyes, it was easy to imagine that it was not his friend saying such things after all; that it was all merely a bad dream. The voice now speaking was so changed as to be almost entirely foreign to him, but with still a faint note of familiarity that made it all the more devastating to hear the change.

"In return, there will be no further French casualties so long as your people accept these new terms peacefully. We thank you for your cooperation, France."

France could not find his voice. He nodded faintly. East Germany turned and strode out of the room, West starting to follow, and then he turned back, frowning a little.

"Come," he ordered France coldly. "We'll be bringing you with us."

France had not been expecting this, though he thought faintly that he should have. He followed the taller nation mechanically, too overcome with emotions to even feel much fear anymore.

East, ahead of them both, had already made his way downstairs. Now he stood by the table on which France had placed the picture a few days before. He had picked up the photo in its glass frame and was staring down at it, frozen, his already pale face even whiter now and the faintest tremor in his black-gloved hand.

France could feel the tears coming back to his eyes, a fresh hope rising in him. East Germany gripped the picture tighter and looked up, his eyes abruptly meeting France's, and for a second France saw part of the burning hardness in face seem to soften.

Then, suddenly that faint softness was gone; baring his teeth in a savage grimace, the East German hurled the picture to the ground, grinding the shattered glass of the frame into the floor with the heel of his black boot, and strode out of the house.

* * *

**Author's note:**

_Just some historical context. This story details the Battle of France and the subsequent military occupation in World War II. Obviously the speed of events is skewed slightly for the same of the story—the occupation of Paris and the armistice agreement did not happen on the same day, for example, though they were very close together._

_Beginning May 10, 1940, German forces invaded France, initially using armored units to cut off Allied units which had advanced into Belgium. This was known as Fall Gelb, or Case Yellow. The British and French forces there were pushed back as far as the sea and many were then evacuated to prevent excess casualties. Germany then used air and land forces to attack again in an operation known as Fall Rot (Case Red), beginning on June 5, and within nine days, on June 14, they had arrived in Paris, which was not defended._

_By then resistance had pretty much ended, and on June 18, 1940, Germans and French met to negotiate an armistice agreement to prevent further casualties. This agreement was signed on June 22. Germany basically states the terms of this agreement, but to sum up, a large part of France was occupied by the German army and a French government under orders to cooperate with the Germans was set up in Vichy, France, in the unoccupied part of southern France._

_Also, Prussia is obviously representing East Germany in this story, which is why the brothers are invading France together. I'm also assuming that the nations are getting their orders from their bosses and then they just convey this information between themselves._

_Please favorite if you liked it, and definitely review if you read it! I can always change something if it's inaccurate, so please let me know._


End file.
